Estelle Calling

To be honest, I have, thus far, lived the majority of my life without a mobile device. These three by five machines are everything but mere phones. Telephones are for conversing and now the landscape of communicating involves e-mails, navigating programs, stock market applications and the short-charge blip akin to a grammatically-slaughtered smoke signal known as the text message. Longingly, I remember the days of going to dinner, a movie, or even church without the threat of a buzzing and vibrating piece of chrome being within a long arm's length. With the advent of the mobile device has come the demise of manners and common sense.

Although Estelle single-handedly runs a large business from her Blackberry, she still insists on the phone etiquette that served as the criterion of our lives during an era void of mobile devices. Thus, when the ringtone heralds after three rings, in a most pleasant voice you will hear, "Good day, Crisp residence." My voice is often so pleasant that it is mistaken for a sultry stay-at-home vixen. My sing-song lilt causes much gender confusion when I reply to the welcoming "I am glad I am speaking to the lady of the house" with "This is Mr. Crisp." The silence shields neither the confusion nor the embarrassment of the cold-calling solicitor.

"We make business or social calls between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m." Estelle reminded me of this mantra often during my teen years. To this day, a phone call after 9 p.m. starts to be socially questionable and implies an approaching lecherous nature while a call in the early morning hours is equated with natural disaster, family imprisonment, death or a combination of all.

Estelle is a firm believer that the phone is not appropriate for all conversations. As a teen, she often reminded me that "some conversations are not meant for the telephone and should be handled in person."

These constructions have served my family well. At times my friends are amazed at my phone etiquette that transfixes my baritone into a celestial paragon of home training. "Oh my God, you're always so pleasant on the phone. How did you learn that?" I raise my eyebrows and cock my head slightly implying the unspoken answer: Estelle. Longingly my friends' eyes widen as if tears would plead "Oh, if she were only my mother I could graciously avoid Craft-o-Matic Bed salesmen, stop those humiliating text messages and detour those late-night booty calls."

Although Estelle could offer a successful boot camp for manners and the mobile device, she wields her own Blackberry like a Samurai with a personally-crafted sword. Appropriately, she makes appointments, answers e-mails, and orders accessories from Neiman Marcus. Simply, used wisely, the mobile device has made life easier.

At the red light, Estelle unloaded her Blackberry while commenting, "Let's pick up soups and salads from 828 Cafe on the way home." Riding in the passenger's seat of the Navigator, she quickly dialed the restaurant and spoke like a descended angel. "Good evening Claire. This is Mrs. Crisp and I would like to place a dinner order for pick up. Yes, thank you. I will hold."

I accelerated the Navigator through the intersection as Estelle covered the receiver of the Blackberry as if she didn't want the Muzak version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" to be offended by her whispering to me during the conversation. "This will be so much easier than cooking." Her whisper was soft and angelic as a precaution to an unexpected return to the conversation.

South Asheville is plagued with frequent traffic lights. While stopped at the next intersection, Estelle was silent, smiling and swaying slightly to audible rendition of "Careless Whisper." The reminiscing of nostalgic '80's classics was interrupted with a very factual, "They must be busy. I am still holding."

Less than a half mile later we were stopped at another red light and accompanied by overly synthesized rendition, if there is such a thing of "Betty Davis' Eyes." Estelle's voice became audible and punctuated losing the angelic whisper and the concern for offending Kim Carnes. "This_is_a_long_time_to_hold."

"This_is_RIDICULOUS," blared from the passenger's seat. For a moment, I was confused if Estelle was barking about the wait time of the original version of Christopher Cross's "Sailing" muffling from the Blackberry. Naturally, I inquired, "Do you want to go somewhere else?" Apparently, to Estelle, this inquisition was equated to treason of Benedict Arnold proportion. She looked at the timer on the mobile device and roared, "SEVEN_MINUTES_AND_THIRTY_EIGHT_SECONDS. Oh no. We are going by there. This is NOT acceptable."

Gingerly, I steered the Navigator toward the restaurant and prayed that upon arriving we found 828 Cafe hard pressed with a commotion befitting the surprise visit of a foreign diplomat or horrific disaster. "No wonder they couldn't get back to the phone the delegation from Tonga is dining." Or it would soothe Estelle's growing temper to see the restaurant burned to ashes with the only surviving relic the still-connected telephone with line two blinking repetitiously.

I played the scenarios in my head while edging closer to the restaurant. Estelle was silent, her foot tapping rapidly while a saxophone clumsily bellowed Quiet Riot's "We're Not Gonna Take It" through the speaker of her Blackberry.

Pulling into the restaurant parking lot my fears were realized: the parking lot was virtually empty. Before I could engage the emergency brake, Estelle was making a straight shot to the front door with the Blackberry still adjacent to her ear. I quickly followed suit, starting my prayer "Turn around bright eyes. Every now and then you fall apart."

Burning turmoil and an Tongan delegation absent, the hostess cheerfully greeted Estelle with "Welcome to 828. I am Claire. How can I help you?" I prayed these would not be the young siren's last words. With Blackberry still glued to her ear, Estelle was strict and direct. "Claire, please get your manager now." The young woman's lips started to move but were stopped with Estelle's command that was long and louder, "NOW."

The stereo effect of the restaurant's speakers and the Blackberry simultaneously echoed a daunting acoustic version of "Another One Bites the Dust." Returning with a middle-aged man in a dark suit, Claire was rightfully silent and visibly frightened of the petite woman still holding the Blackberry.

The man began, "Good evening, Mad . . . "

Before the sentence could travel through the air Estelle inquired, "Where is your phone?"

This was met with silence and a confused look. Still holding the Blackberry, she asked again, "Where is your phone?"

The man looked to the phone adjacent to the hostess station. It was monolithic and silent. The only sign of operation was the white light repeatedly blinking. Curious about Estelle's refusal to retreat from her Blackberry, the manager stuttered, "the . .the . .the.. ph-phone is right over here. Do you need to use it?"

"Answer the phone," Estelle commanded.

Reluctantly, the manager pressed the blinking light and with the vulgar intonation of a used car salesman said, "Thank you for calling 828. How may I help you?"

Speaking into her Blackberry, Estelle's voice again became light and angelic. "Good evening." As she started, the manager looked her direction with a face that prayed for the floor to open allowing a safe passage across the River Styx as an escape from the fury that was yet to come. "This is Mrs. Crisp and I called for a take out order 17 minutes ago. When I called, I was put on hold and have been holding for a long time. As a business owner, I need to tell you this is NOT an appropriate way to treat a customer." At this point, I chuckled at the smile Estelle used while talking on her Blackberry and looking at the manager.

Stunned into silence, the manager was able to slur, "Mrs. Crisp. I am very sorry. I am going to get off the phone and help you."

"Well, thank you." This was the voice used frequently on phone calls. The same voice that is used at country club card games and garden parties. "Thank you for taking my call. I look forward to speaking with you again. Bye, bye." Her smile continued as she lowered the Blackberry.

"Uh, bye . . uh bye," fell out of the nervous manager's mouth as he dropped the phone. For the next few minutes the restaurant staff circled frantically assembling a take out order that was fit for the delegation from Tonga, or a queen. The other patrons, a sole elderly couple was amused. Bags were filled with salads, soups, bread, and a red velvet cake. "Please Mrs. Crisp allow us to treat you. There is no need to pay tonight."

"Well, thank you," Estelle sighed as she slipped a 20 bill in the tip jar. "And thank you for taking my phone call." I chuckled as I grabbed the two bags of food while the restaurants speakers chimed, "She's a maniac, maniac . . . "

Simply, some things cannot be handled on the phone.

Six Feet Under and Three Sheets to the Wind

Standing in front of her meticulously organized closet, Estelle holds up her small French clutch. The ruffled leather pouchette is embroidered with metallic flowers and dangles from a studded wristlet. Looking intently at my father and me, she simply asks, "Is this too much?" Emerging from a space equivalent to a normal sized Manhattan apartment, the closet is a draped warehouse of Estelle's supreme mantra: looking good is feeling good.

My dad and I look up from our sections of the newspaper, both silent in our reaction. We know Estelle's solicitation is for sheer amusement and not serious since my dad's sartorial adventures are limited to one thousand and one interpretations of golf attire and since my youth negates any seriousness of my opinions.

She holds the clutch against her monochromatic St. John's tunic, wrap, and pants. "It's never too much, boys." Our signal to follow her to the Escalade, the car that is envied by both teens and rappers. "I'll drive the Escalator tonight."

Friday's standing dinner reservation at the Hendersonville Country Club had been shifted to a newer restaurant on Main Street. The newspaper's recount of local merchants feeling the pressure of the recession and larger corporations has prompted my mom and dad to whole-heartedly support their fellow capitalists. "To this day, I will say Walker's Hardware would be there on King Street. if it hadn't been for that Wal-Marts," was my dad's consistent introduction to lectures on local business practices and like all good Southern gentlemen, he will pluralize many a single entity.

Sitting and scrutinizing the menu, our silence was broken. Ignoring the menu, Estelle's French clutch waved through the air and throughout the restaurant her voice carried, "Rucker. . . . .Rucker . . . Rucker." Louder and louder.

Confused and staring blankly at each other, my dad and I thought my mother was suffering from a momentary lapse of manners and yelling mispronounced profanities at near-by patrons of the seven o'clock seating.

"Rucker . . .Rucker. I'm over here." Standing at our table was a giant in a dark suit. Because of his palor and overly-starched shirt, his age was somewhere between late twenties and death. Estelle continued, "This is Rucker Shipman. He's the new mortician at the funeral home."

Although my mom and I have much in common, my father and I share a dark and inappropriate humor that is steeped in cultural references. At the mention of giant's occupation, I knew we were thinking the same thing: Lurch.

"Please Rucker, join us for dinner." The words escaped Estelle's mouth, inviting adventure to which we were now so accustomed.

"Well, I say, I say, that would be simply grand, Mrs. Crisp. Mrs. Crisp that would be simply, I say, Grand. But I am meeting two of my colleagues for a nightcap," the giant's words were as long as his inseam.

"No worries," Estelle dismissed. "These boys won't mind at all." In one swoop of the Lanvin clutch, my dad and I were relegated to the proverbial back seat. "Let's pull up some chairs."

Within minutes our quiet table of three expanded to a table of five. Our routinized Friday evening dinner occasionally accompanied by a glass a wine was now peppered with three gentleman in dark suits, somber faces, and pastel ascots. Their silvery baritones formed a unison request of the bewildered waitress, "three gin and tonics, please."

The gin and tonics briefly touched the table before the triune of funeral directors proposed a toast, "Here's to Mrs. Crisp. I say, she made what could have been a rather, I say, a horrible week into what I say into a pleasant ending. I say, here's to you." The gin and tonics raptured our mineral waters in the air with the mystery of Rucker's linguistic oddity and Estelle's own undertaking remaining in the air.

"Here, here," the white-headed undertaker with the purple ascot uttered. "Let's have another round," he noted to the waitress. Her face perplexed at this gathering. The mortician continued, "You were quite wonderful with Mrs. Mabel Watkins."

"That is really quite sweet of you, thank you." Estelle can be more than gracious when she wants. She continued with compliments, "You remind me of my wonderful Uncle Wesley. He was a doll." The funeral director blushed and I immediately thought of the mentioned Uncle Wesley. When Uncle Wesley wasn't engrossed in teaching Latin at the University of South Carolina, he was volunteering his time and talents at local funeral parlors doing hair and make-up. Impeccably dressed always, a normal day could find Uncle Wesley in a salmon-colored linen sport coat, yellow shirt, pink paisley ascot with white pants and shoes. Estelle was correct, his incarnate was at dinner.

With more gin and tonics in the hands of the undertakers, Estelle commented, "Mrs. Mabel Watkins was fine. She just needed someone to listen to her." Estelle will easily dismiss praise.

Rucker, interrupting his gin flow, persisted, "no, no, no, I say. I say, we have been working with her for six weeks with, I say, little to no success. I say, you worked with her for two hours and , I say, changed our worlds." Gin briefly to lips, he then continued, "How did that all happen?"

The smaller of the three who was wearing a plaid ascot and matching pocket square continued, " I thought we would never please Mrs. Mabel Watkins. We buried her husband, Mr. Walter R. Watkins, over six weeks ago. Every time I would go to her home she would accuse me of eating half of a ham or a cake or a plate full of biscuits. Do I look like I could eat a half of a cake?"

The table was silent as we looked at the man's portly sphere enclosed in a striped shirt and plaid ascot.

Rucker interrupted his gin intake, "I say, the last time, I say, I went in her rambling old house, she accused me of eating a bowl of snap beans and a plate of turkey legs."

At this point my dad and I were confused about the intersection of a thought-to-be-insane widower, three gay morticians, stolen food, and Estelle. Snidely, I couldn't refuse, "I say, what happened?"

My dad coughed nervously at my remark while more gin warmed the throats of the three. Ascots must not be too warm. Estelle, giving my an eye that was keen to my taunting, did not let conversation lapse. "Last week Rucker called and asked if we could send a cleaning crew to Mrs. Watkins' home. We do this from time to time. If a grieving family needs extra help, the funeral home will hire us. So, last Wednesday I scheduled a cleaning with Mrs. Watkins' son, Troy. He lives over in Clyde now and, I think, rarely checks on his home-bound mother."

At this point, my dad and I expected most anything. The ascot-clad crowd nursed another round as she continued.

Well, Wednesday afternoon Evangeline called from Mrs. Watkins' home. There was a serious ruckus happening and all I could hear was 'Ms. Estelle. Please come really quick. White lady is crazy.' I was trying to get my nails done but that was serious so I went all the way over to Mills Gap Road."

When I got there, the whole crew was standing outside and Mrs Watkins had a rifle and was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch." The only sound at the table was the clanking ice of an empty gin and tonic glass as Rucker signaled the waitress for another round. Estelle continued, "So, I got out of the car and looked at the crew and told them to calm down and let me handle all of this. Lord, that woman was a mess."

The red-faced man in the purple ascot inquired, "were you at all frightened, Ms. Estelle?"

She looked at the blushed crowd, "Well no. I carry a pistol in my pocket book." At this point, my dad and I chuckled. Although my mother is a certified pistol packer and a great shot with a rifle, she has never owned bullets. She will, however, tell you the pearl handle matches her Tiffany necklace and bracelet.

The story unfolded, "I walked up to the porch and said 'Mrs. Watkins, how are you, is there a problem?' The elderly woman put the rifle in her lap and said 'I'll say. Your Mexican wants to open up that there door to my husband's bedroom and I ain't having it!'"

"I ss-ss-ssay, theeeey Lord," Rucker's words were slurred as he ordered another round.

"Well first I told her that Evangeline was from Antigua and, therefore, could not be a Mexican. Then I asked her when the last time that door had been opened and she told not for three years. Her husband had gone into assisted living when he was diagnosed with cancer and she had just shut-up that bedroom and moved upstairs. Then I told her we had to get in that bedroom to clean."

"Oh, my. Drink please,"slurred purple ascot as he signaled the ever-busy waitress.

Estelle eyeing the gin classes continued, "I just took her hand and told her I would go with her to open the door or I would do it by myself but that it had to get done. So, she said she wanted to go with me. I told her I would hold her hand and it would be o.k. So I called over Evangeline and the crew and we all went to the bedroom. Lord, and I looked down and we were all holding hands. Even Joe, my new handy man."

Plaid ascot began to chuckle, "That is sssure ssweets of you, Ms. Estelle."

"Well," Estelle paused again to let the waitress deliver another round of gin and tonics to the funeral crew. "I opened the door and couldn't believe my eyes. There was a full-grown woman in the bedroom asleep smack in the middle of the bed. Well, she shot straight up and started screaming. Then Mrs. Watkins started screaming and hollering. Then Evangeline started screaming and crying. Even Joe shouted."

"I say, say, I say. I say," stumbled Rucker. All I could think was "really, you don't Rucker." He then asked, "well, well, I say, what did you do, do, I say?"

"I told them all to shut-the-hell-up. All the screaming was getting on my damn nerves. Then I asked the lady in the bed who she was." Estelle smirked. "That lady had crawled in that window two years ago and had been living in Mrs. Watkins' home since and she would sneak out and steal food from the pantry and stove. Her name was Lavonia and her husband had died three years ago and she had nothing."

"Honey, did you call the cops?" My dad wanted to know.

"The police? Why would I call the police?" My mom looked at my father as if his methodical logic had once again failed. "No, I called Seventh Street Mission. Anyway, they came down and Lavonia has a home. Mrs. Watkins has her house straightened and cleaned and is not crazy for thinking someone was eating her food."

"Well, well. I say, I say, I say, I say that is a miracle, I say," Rucker's repetition lengthened with each drink.

"Miracle," Estelle dismissed, "I just opened up a shut door. Rucker, you'll learn. Sometimes, you just need to hold someone's hand and help them turn the knob."

Silence fell on the table for a brief second.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind," The portly man started singing and soon the trio was belting with drinks raised in the air.

"Here's to Ms. Estelle, I say," shouted Rucker

The trio continued, "Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet,

for auld lang syne."

The singing continued as we excused ourselves from the table avoiding sloshing gin and falling ascots. We left the restaurant and crossed Fifth Avenue towards the car. Estelle flung her purse in the air and laughed, "Just think boys, I thought this pocketbook was too much tonight." She laughed as she climbed in the car.

Estell-o-grams

For those of you who have had the pleasure of meeting and interacting with Estelle, you know first hand that her wit, as far as we can all tell, is not intentional. With an ample styling of grace, she simply says and does what she wants to while somehow thinking of others while doing it. This type of living drove Kate Chopin's protagonist into the sea never to return. No wonder Estelle hates being enclosed by water. Yet, she is gracious in her life full of charity, industry and the pampering of self with weekly hair appointments and the comfort of St. John knits.

Over the past week or so, I have compiled a few things that she has uttered. These sayings, to her, are heartfelt. To the rest of us much laughter has erupted as we have stopped and given pause to her wisdom.

Life has a way of providing much insight, even if it arrives unexpectedly from a petite woman clad in layers of cashmere and digging frantically in her Gucci pocketbook.

It takes more than a shot to raise a child or ground a drunk. Upon hearing about Bill Gates' plan to vaccinate all the children of the world, Estelle had a good, old-fashioned hissy fit and uttered her sentiment. Although she is an advocate of eradicating disease, she is even more of an advocate of, as she would say, Home Training. A shot, in Estelle's mind, does not guarantee a good life.

No manners is worse than no money. The antidote to this, of course, is good Home Training. With the advent of too-readily available mobile devices, wearing sweat pants in the grocery store, and informally replying with "yep" or "nope," Estelle utters this phrase often. The other day while checking out at the boutique grocery store, the cashier answered Estelle's greeting about the sunny afternoon with "yep, I guess so." In a quick minute, Estelle placed her pocketbook down and said, "Now, now Ms. Lady. When someone is friendly with you, regardless if it be a customer or a stranger, it is in everyone's best interest that you show some respect and be cordial. Let's try this again. It sure is a nice day outside, isn't it?" The stunned cashier uttered, "Yes ma'am. Yes ma'am, it is really pretty." Hence ended the lesson.

She's an Indian nickel trying to be the British pound. I will not defend Estelle's use of non-politically correct language. I will say her statement was not in direct reference to Native Americans, but, in reference to a rather loud woman carrying an obvious Louis Vuitton knock-off handbag. The shopper was making a rather raucous scene about her declined credit card. This, of course, violates one of Estelle's mantras: pay with Cash Money. Thus, seeing obviously dyed and bleached hair, a stab at pretension with a faux handbag, and the public playing out of the economic crisis did not sit well at all. Her frustration and commentary, although silent, read on her facial expression like the clearly definable images from the drive-in movie that can be seen all the way from I-85. Was it right for her to reinforce British Imperialism or lessen the plight of the Native American? No. Did it make a point in outright humor? Trust me, it did.

If it's a snake, don't call it a bunny. Estelle calls it as it is and encourages everyone around her to do the same. Saying these words always serves as a prelude to a perceived universal truth to follow: "Those shoes are ugly;" "She's put on her weight again;" "Lord, he's a drunk." This may sound biting but she always says it with a rather slow and thoughtful drawl and it reminds me that people show their true nature and it is our responsibility to believe and accept it.

These phrases and many more live with me in all aspects of my life: business meetings, grocery shopping or driving around an again-flooded Banner Farm Rd. Lay aside their regional humor and find clear guidance and solid advice. At first you may feel uneasy adopting these axioms, but, trust me, they work. So, the next time you find yourself with cash money, trying on something daring in the dressing room of Neiman Marcus, ask yourself, "Does this make me look like a two-dollar whore in a ten-dollar church?"